


Jealousy

by sensitivebore



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-22
Updated: 2013-01-22
Packaged: 2017-11-26 11:21:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/649990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sensitivebore/pseuds/sensitivebore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carson and Hughes, and jealousy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jealousy

"And she looked so elegant, didn't she? That gown is the last word in fashion, and her hair — that was a new style!" Daisy and Ivy are chattering away with animation, excited about being allowed to see the party unfold for once, about glimpsing all of those posh riches in full swing.

"Didn't you think so, Mr. Carson?" Ivy's eyes are shining, full of awe at all of the splendor she had finally witnessed.

Carson makes a small humming sound, doesn't look up from the newspaper he's reading. Elsie is next to him, as always, reading her book; Virginia Woolf again, she's taken quite the liking to her writing, to the woman herself. Admires her. Neither of them are paying much attention to the breezy gossip of the two kitchen girls, but Ivy is persistent.

"Her Ladyship was beautiful, don't you think, Mr. Carson?"

Elsie sputters a little laugh, turns the page. She knows exactly what answer this type of question will get; the same answer all of these inquiries get, every single time.  _It's not my place to say, nor is it yours._

Carson looks over his paper for a moment, and there it is. "It's not my place to say, Ivy —"

Elsie chortles again, turns another page.

"— but since you mention it, yes. Her Ladyship is always beautifully appointed and is a credit to this house." He returns to his news.

Elsie stares at him, fairly gawking. He has noticed what a woman wore, how she looked? She can't hide her shock but he's engrossed in his reading again as she sits there, boring holes in him with her eyes.

A prickle crawls up her spine and she fidgets irritably. Well, Cora is always elegantly dressed. And she has a certain prettiness, Elsie supposes. Cheap good looks, in her opinion, but men seem to like that sort of thing. Another irritating nerve twinges in her back and she slams her book shut harder than she means. He looks up in surprise.

"Everything all right, Mrs. Hughes?"

She stands, shoves her chair in — again, harder than she means, what on earth is wrong with her — and gathers her book and cup of tea, replies crisply. "Fine, Mr. Carson. I believe I'll retire to my parlor for the evening where I can read in peace."

Flounces off. He watches her in mild confusion, shrugs.

She curls into her armchair sulkily and tries to get lost in Woolf's elegant, beautiful writing again, tries to pick up where she left off. Elegant. Beautiful.

Since when did he describe a woman, any woman, that way? She shifts around moodily, curls her stocking feet beneath her. He certainly has never given her any lavish compliments. Not even once. Not when she gets new dresses, or new hair things, or wears the faintest dash of rouge. Nothing.

Her thoughts drift to Cora and she sniffs angrily. Thinks about how he dances attendance on her, how he's always springing to attention when she enters a room, pulling out her chair, pouring her water, nodding respectfully when she speaks. As if that dim, vacant woman could have anything useful to say. Other images float through her mind. He always takes her hand so tenderly when helping her up from low seats or down from motorcars. He's always so careful when hanging her coat or placing her handbag on a side table. Elsie grows indignant. As if he needs to be doing anything with her handbag. As if his other duties weren't far more important. Miss Ladyship could deal with her own handbag, but no, she has to hand it to him with that casual smile, that flick of tarty lashes.

Stupidly, ridiculously, she feels her eyes filling with hurt tears, a resentful knot forming in her throat. Just once, it would be nice if he'd acknowledge that she, too, is a woman and not just a housekeeper. Not just another faceless member of an endless staff made to wait on these people. It would be nice if he'd notice the perfume she wore sometimes. Supposes that's too much to expect when he spends his days in a fog of the most expensive French scents, it's too much to expect that he'd notice her little lemon and vanilla mist.

This is ridiculous. She tries to tell herself that, tries to pull herself together. She's a woman entering the autumn of her years, for heaven's sake, and she's sitting here disconsolate because the most handsome boy at the village dance hasn't noticed her. Elsie laughs a little, swipes the back of her hand over her eyes. Returns to her book.

The next morning, she is moving swiftly through the halls to check the progress of cleaning when an American voice calls to her and she rolls her eyes. Turns, enters Cora's bedroom with a pleasant, neutral expression.

"Yes, milady? Is there something you need?"

Cora smiles and Mary gives a lazy little wave from her sprawl on the chaise, which Elsie pointedly ignores. The girl can learn to speak like a grown woman or be ignored like a nursery child, one or the other.

"Mrs. Hughes, do you know where the christening invitations are? I've lost my list and I have no idea who we've invited now." She giggles, inanely Elsie thinks, and gestures vaguely around. "I need to go through them and make sure none of Robert's aunts have been forgotten, else I'll never hear the end of it from his mother."

Elsie suppresses her instinct to roll her eyes and nods politely. "Yes, milady, Mr. Carson has them in his pantry. He was last working on addressing the envelopes, I believe — would you like me to get them for you?"

Cora makes another careless gesture. "No, no, Mary and I will get them in a few minutes, we're going out anyway and I have to stop by the kitchen to ask Mrs. Patmore about the menu. Thank you, Mrs. Hughes."

"If that's all then, miladies."

She withdraws, stalks off in the direction of the kitchen to warn Mrs. Patmore that there'll be a royal visit soon. Elsie fumes. She's the only one that goes into his office alone; he doesn't need that woman pawing through his things, mucking around, disordering his papers. Leaving the smell of her all over his furniture. Touching his books, his pens.

A sudden compulsion seizes her and she changes direction, goes to his office instead of the back kitchen, lets herself in. It's silent, dim; he is upstairs with his Lordship going over the appointments for the day. She doesn't know why she's come here, she doesn't exactly know what she plans to do. All she knows is that she wants to make her impression here before that woman does, wants to leave something of herself that will unmistakably announce her presence. Elsie flushes guiltily. It's no better than a cat in heat, she thinks, amounts to nothing better than territorial pissing, but she can't help herself.

She has a terrible thought, then, an awful one, a thought that is cheap and tawdry and below her, and he will kill her for it if he catches her at it, but — there is certainly one way to show another woman that she is trespassing on land already spoken for. There is a very definite way to do that. Swiftly, she begins to unbutton her dress, pulls her arms free, pushes it down around her waist. Twists her arms behind her back and unties the white ribbons of her corset, pulls at them with rough, impatient fingers. Pulls and pulls until they are slipping free from the eyelets, until she has them out. She curves the corset back around her front, pushes her arms back into her sleeves, buttons her dress. Elsie looks around, chews at her lip, smiles a bad-hearted little smile. Looks at the pile of invitations on his desk and with a brush of her hand, knocks them askew so some fall to the floor. Throws her corset ribbons down with them, covers them partway with an envelope.

There. She leaves silently, withdraws to her parlor.

Later, Mary and Cora bustle into Carson's pantry, laughing, joking, and begin poking around for the invites when Mary spots them.

"Here, mama. Oh, look, he's doing them so nicely; Carson should always do all of the writing here, truly." She glances at the desk, notices that the stack has fallen. Bends to retrieve them.

"Here, here's Auntie Agatha and — what is this? Is this — " Mary straightens, holding a tangle of ivory satin in her hand. "Mama, don't these look like — "

Cora glances up from rifling through the cards and pauses, her mouth slightly open. "Corset ribbons, yes. But what on earth would Mr. Carson be doing with corset — "

Mother looks at daughter. They both look at the scattered papers, the lady's unmentionables in Mary's hand. Daughter looks at mother.

"You don't think — "

"Surely not — "

"But — she said she had just seen him writing out the — "

"Oh, my god, do you really think — "

Both women dissolve into muffled shrieks and Mary crumples the ribbons into her hand, whispers a rush against her mother's ear, who nods emphatically and gestures with a scooting motion. "Yes, go, go! His face will be priceless!"

Mary leaves the room with a solemn face, working hard to control herself, trips lightly up the stairs where she meets Carson leaving the library. She chews madly at the inside of her cheek to keep from guffawing in the most bawdy of ways. Clears her throat.

"Carson."

He looks up, pleasantly surprised as he always is — Mary feels a pang of love, hopes that it's true, that every bit of it is as true as they suspect, hopes that for him — and lifts his brows in question.

"Milady?"

She reaches for his hand and folds the cool, silken ribbons into his palm, watches his face change from one of confusion to a deep flush of shock as he realizes what they are, exactly what. His voice is a flustered whisper.

"Milady, I don't understand what on earth — "

Mary gives him a choked giggle, an appraising look. "I think you do, Carson. They were, after all, in your office. And no one upstairs wears white corset ribbons." She narrows her eyes, makes a gesture that clearly states I see what you've done there, and scampers back down the stairs.

Carson stands there, completely lost, staring at the handful of narrow delicate material. His brow furrows and, furtively, after a good glance up and down the hall, he lifts his hand to his face. Inhales. Closes his eyes with a soft exhale of pleasured breath.

Lemon, and something else. Vanilla.

A scent he would know anywhere. Always.


End file.
